


Keep Me Right

by mygreatestjoyandprivilege



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Fluffiness, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, One Shot, but mostly fluff i promise, idk if it's even angst but you know, oh god how do tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 21:58:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1363213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mygreatestjoyandprivilege/pseuds/mygreatestjoyandprivilege
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thinks no one cares about him, but John convinces him otherwise, realizing that he is actually hopelessly in love with his flatmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Me Right

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first Johnlock fic I've ever written. I don't know why it took me so long, but I did it! I mostly wrote it for myself, but any feedback is still appreciated so I can get ideas for what to work on in the future if I choose to write more. Hope you enjoy! :)

John came home to the flat to Sherlock sprawled out on the couch, his hands tucked under his chin in his typical deep-in-thought-do-not-disturb-position. He mumbled a quick hello to Sherlock, knowing he probably wouldn’t answer. He was more than used to this routine by now.

And he was right. Sherlock didn’t say a word or appear to move a muscle as John walked to the kitchen to put the groceries away. The groceries that he would most likely eat singlehandedly, since Sherlock seemed to be either a robot or a superhuman without a need for regular human food. John did his best to encourage his flatmate to eat at least one full meal a day by cooking for him or ordering take away. As long as he saw Sherlock eating something every so often, he didn’t worry too much about his health. He was his doctor, after all.

But today was going to be a challenge to get him to eat, John knew that already. If he was in that position on the couch—and who knew how many hours he’d been there—it was going to be a while before he even acknowledged John’s existence. He was in his mind palace or whatever he called it, and there was literally no way of disturbing him unless John physically slapped him across the face, which he didn’t think Sherlock entirely deserved at the moment.

John was exhausted from his long shift at the surgery and then having to deal with what seemed like endless crowds of people on the Tube and then when he stopped by Tesco on the way home. He was ready for a hot shower and a cup of tea before he made dinner. He left Sherlock on the couch and headed up to his room.

About an hour later, after John had taken a long shower and sorted through some things in his room for a while before returning downstairs to the kitchen, he was surprised to see that Sherlock had moved while he was gone. He had curled up into a ball and moved to face the wall, still on the couch.

John walked over to him, yawning as he ran a hand through his damp hair and tightening the string on his pajama pants. “Sherlock?” he said when he was a few feet away, saying it quietly just in case he had fallen asleep. That man needed to sleep as much as he needed to eat.

Sherlock made a grumbling noise but didn’t turn his head.

John smiled in spite of himself. Sherlock could be such a child sometimes. “Are you trying to sleep? I can leave if you are.”

“No,” Sherlock replied flatly to the wall.

“Okay…have you eaten today? I was just about to fix something for dinner.”

There was a long pause before Sherlock exhaled and said a non-committal “Meh.”

John sighed and turned around to walk towards the kitchen. “Suit yourself.”

After rummaging around in the fridge and carefully avoiding Sherlock’s experiments, John finally decided on reheating some leftovers from the night before. He also made a cup of tea for himself, and after thinking for a moment, made one for Sherlock too, placing it on the coffee table. He hadn’t moved from his position on the couch, but John knew that if Sherlock wouldn’t eat, he would at least drink some tea at some point.

By the time John was eating his dinner at the kitchen table while reading the newspaper, he saw Sherlock stumble across the room from the couch and collapse dramatically onto his chair by the fireplace, curling up into a ball again and sighing as he laid his head on the armrest.

John chuckled under his breath at his man-child of a flatmate as he finished the last bites of his meal then stood up to do his dishes at the sink. When he had finished and made himself another cup of tea, Sherlock was still in a ball on his chair, staring blankly at John’s empty seat across from him. Sighing, John walked over and sat down, taking a sip of his tea before placing it on the side table.

After a few minutes, John couldn’t take the silence anymore. “Alright, what is it, Sherlock? You’re usually a pouty git all the time, but what is it today?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He moved his eyes up to the skull on top of the fireplace and focused on it intently.

John sighed. “Oh come on Sherlock, out with it. I bet you’ve been dying for me to ask you since I got home.”

“It’s not important,” Sherlock mumbled quietly, adjusting slightly to pull his dressing gown tighter around him.

Well that was a first. John made an overly shocked face. “Not important? So you’re sulking and you don’t want to tell me why? I don’t think that’s ever happened before.”

Sherlock’s sharp blue eyes focused on John, narrowing. “Shut up.”

“Fine, fine, I was just trying to help,” John said, chuckling. He picked up his tea again and took a big gulp. Just as he was about to reach for his book, Sherlock spoke again.

“It’s just something Donovan said to me earlier,” he said somewhat hesitantly, sitting upright in the chair and bringing his knees to his chest. He wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his head on his knees. His entire frame took up the chair in that position, his massive bare feet perched on the edge of it to balance himself.

“Sally Donovan? You know you shouldn’t listen to anything she says,” John said, his voice chipped with anger at the thought of her.

Sherlock nodded slightly but didn’t say anything.

“Sherlock?” John said, his voice softening. He furrowed his eyebrows in concern. “What did she say? Is it really bothering you that much?” He immediately regretted his teasing tone from before. Sherlock usually brushed off everything Donovan said, let alone would it bother him so much that he brought it up with John, so whatever she had said had to have been particularly nasty.

Sherlock cleared his throat and opened his mouth then closed it. Then opened it again. Then closed it. He adjusted in the chair again. “She…she told me that no one cares about me for who I am, they just care about my brain. That I’m just a freak everyone puts up with because I can impress people with fancy deductions. She said that if I didn’t have my mind, no one would really care about me. I would be nothing. And that people just pretend to care because they need me around to figure things out for them.” He said it quietly, hesitantly, like he didn’t really want to tell John about it but knowing he needed to.

John honestly didn’t know how to respond to that. His immediate response was a flame of anger that arose in his chest, and he had to stop himself from getting on the phone and yelling at Greg to fire Donovan at once. He tried to wrack his brain for an appropriate response.

Sherlock seemed to take John’s silence as a confirmation of Sally’s words.

“ _Oh_ ,” he said, swallowing. “I’m sorry. I told you it wasn’t important.” Sherlock hugged his knees closer to his chest and stared at the floor, avoiding John’s eyes.

“Sherlock, that’s not true,” John said finally, leaning forward slightly in his chair and looking at him seriously. “You know it’s not.”

Sherlock flicked his eyes up to John’s. “But isn’t it?” he began quietly, his eyes slightly glassy. “Ever since I was a child, I’ve known I was different. Even when I was very young, I didn’t have many friends. Other kids just didn’t like me. I was weird. I liked to read and was never interested in dull activities like playing sports. And then in primary school, I started learning how to make deductions. I could see things normal people couldn’t, and I could impress people with what I knew. So I thought that if I impressed them, these kids would like me and want to be my friend. And they did, at first. But then I would accidentally say things that hurt them or would go too far with a deduction. I was only a child, I didn’t know any better. And then they would bully me and steal my books and beat me up after school for the things I said.” He paused, swallowing and taking a breath.

He closed his eyes and exhaled, as if in pain from the memory. “John, they _hated_ me. They hated me before I impressed them and they hated me even more afterwards. I have been a freak my entire life. And trust me, no one has ever truly cared about me. Why would they? I’m just a high-functioning sociopath who can solve murders.”

John shook his head violently at his words. “No. No, that’s not true Sherlock.”

“Yes it is, John! You know it is!” he shouted suddenly in a burst of anger, shooting out of his chair and beginning to pace the room. “I am and always will be the _freak_.” He spat the last word, as if he couldn’t stand the taste of it on his tongue. “No matter what I do, people will not accept me for what I am. For who I am.”

“Sherlock, please, you’re being ridiculous,” John said in what he hoped was a comforting tone. He sat in his chair, watching Sherlock pace in front of him. “What about Lestrade? And Molly? And Mycroft? He’s your brother, for god’s sake. Mrs. Hudson! Even Anderson was devastated when you faked your death! Sherlock, you have plenty of people who care about you.”

“Oh, please. They only say they care about me because they feel sorry for me. Lestrade doesn’t want me to go back to drugs, Molly still thinks she has feelings for me, Mycroft just pretends to care because we’re related, Anderson is more of a fanboy than anything else, and Mrs. Hudson just likes that I pay her rent and got her husband executed. That’s not caring, that’s convenience.” Sherlock said this all in his rapid fire deduction style and John barely caught all of it.

John ran a hand through his hair and shook his head, feeling tired all of a sudden. “What happened to saying that caring was not an advantage? Since when has this ever bothered you?”

Sherlock stopped pacing for a moment and looked at John, the anger suddenly gone from his face. He looked like a wounded child. “I don’t…I don’t know…but I remember how alone I felt when I had to pretend to be dead for two years, and I never want to feel that way again,” he whispered, and John’s heart sank at the heartbroken look on his friend’s face.

As soon as John saw the look it was gone, and Sherlock shook his head and turned away from John, as if shaking himself out of a trance. It was the face of a broken man, a man who had seen too much and gone to hell and back to save the people he cared about.

Caring may not be in an advantage to Sherlock Holmes, but it was his greatest weakness. It wasn’t that he didn’t give a damn about anyone, it was that he cared far too much for everyone around him. And it scared him more than anything else.

John realized in that moment how fragile Sherlock really was. It hit him hard in the chest, like a punch in the stomach. Despite being hated and mocked and teased for his glorious mind that people were simply jealous of, Sherlock used his natural born gifts for good. He could have easily become someone like Moriarty, but he didn’t. Moriarty was really just the version of Sherlock that had lost all self-control and let the pain get the better of him, set on watching the world burn as a punishment for all those who had torn him down.

He chose to be a consulting detective, to help people, even when it seemed like no one in the world wanted to help him in return. He had been an addict, he had faced the most criminal masterminds in the world, he had risked everything to save John and everyone who meant anything to him. Sherlock had sacrificed so much to receive so little in return, yet he was still fighting every day.

John swallowed a growing lump in his throat, surprised by his sudden emotion. But all he could think about when he stared at Sherlock in front of him and saw the broken, tired frame of a man who had been through so much, was that Sherlock just wanted to be loved. He craved human companionship more he would like to admit. “Alone is what I have, alone protects me.” That was a lie told to protect John and to protect Sherlock from himself.

He was so afraid of letting people in, so afraid that they would change their minds and tire of him eventually or get annoyed with him, just as his friends back at school did. So he put up defenses, claimed to be a “high-functioning sociopath” (something John had always doubted in the back of his mind once he got to really know Sherlock) and was intentionally rude to people to keep them away. It was a wall he could easily hide behind to make people stop asking questions, to make sure they never wanted to get to know him. Sherlock could not afford to allow anyone to be close to him because he was afraid of what would happen to him if he did.

And yet, there was John.

The first time John had met the consulting detective, he was appalled yet intrigued by this tall and lanky man who spoke faster than he could think and walked around in a trench coat and scarf unironically. The fact that he could know so much about a stranger from one look was both disturbing and fascinating, and the minute John met Sherlock, he wanted to know more.

Their first few weeks in the flat were a bit awkward, of course, but as is with any living situation. They each had to learn each other’s quirks and strange habits—although John would argue that Sherlock had far more of those than he did—and learn to live with each other. And then it was learning how to work with each other, as Sherlock asked John to accompany him on more and more cases. John enjoyed spending time with Sherlock, even if it seemed like they were polar opposites half of the time.

Often at the surgery he would sit at his desk filling out paperwork on a particularly slow day at the clinic, constantly checking his phone to see if Sherlock texted him so he could make up an excuse and leave early for the day to investigate something with him. And John noticed that as the two of them spent more time together, the more Sherlock opened up to him. He would text him more and more often, not just for cases but to tell him how bored he was or demand that John pick up some things for his experiments on the way home from work. The whole situation was very domestic, as Mrs. Hudson would say.

At first, Sherlock was hesitant to even look at John directly when he spoke to him and would brush off a lot of his questions, not wanting to waste time explaining it to his simpler mind. But slowly, he realized that he liked having John there. Not just for the frequent compliments on his intelligence and clever deductions, but because with John, he felt that they were a good team. It was more fun to solve cases with John than without him. He made sure Sherlock didn’t do anything too reckless, made sure he was safe, and gave him some medical expertise and an extra pair of eyes Sherlock didn’t realize he wanted. Once he got to know John, he realized that he didn’t have to treat him with the same coldness and indifference as he did the rest of the world; John was different…almost special, in a way that Sherlock didn’t understand. John Watson was a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out, which was a first. But it made him all the more meaningful to Sherlock. He somehow allowed his walls to come down slowly over time, for John and John only, which he may not have realized he was doing half the time.

And as they solved more and more cases, Sherlock noticed that he felt much…happier. An emotion he hadn’t been familiar with in a long time. He smiled more when he was with John. He actually laughed at his jokes, because they were funny, not because he pitied him. He enjoyed himself more in general on cases, so much so that Lestrade even commented on it a few times, not even in a teasing way. It was clear very quickly after John and Sherlock moved into together that they were at the beginning of a wonderful friendship.

They may have been an odd pair, but they fit together well, and often they found themselves thinking that they couldn’t imagine what their lives had been like before they had become flatmates. Sherlock didn’t dare to think too much about the fact that he couldn’t remember the last time he had a friend like John, but it was true whether he liked it or not. They just somehow _worked_ together.

All of this and more suddenly flew through John’s head at rapid speed as he looked at Sherlock’s from across the room.

John swallowed hard, then cleared his throat, hoping his voice wouldn’t crack when he spoke. “Sherlock,” he said gently. “I know you’ve been through a lot, but no one is saying you have to go back to that place, alright?” John was torn between allowing Sherlock to have some space and wanting to give him a hug. He decided on staying in his chair, since hugging was not a thing they did often. It was not how their relationship worked.

Sherlock bit his lower lip hard, appearing to be holding back tears, and nodded, walking over to the desk and pretending to fiddle with some papers.

After a moment of silence, Sherlock spoke again, this time with his normal voice. “I know. But as much as I loathe Donovan, she’s right, John. If I couldn’t solve crimes for Scotland Yard and use this stupid brain of mine for something, I would be worthless. Anyone who says they care about me just likes what I can offer to them.”

As Sherlock was saying this, John had stood up and walked over to him so he was standing directly in front of Sherlock, his arms crossed. He had had enough of Sherlock’s self-loathing pity party, and it was time to put an end to it.

“What about me?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock replied, confused.

“I said, _what about me_ , Sherlock? I got a flat-share with you the very first day I met you. Actually, I killed a man for you the first day we met, now that I think of it. I’ve lived with you for years and haven’t managed to smother you with a pillow in your sleep yet. I thought you were dead for two years— _two years, Sherlock_ —and yet I still moved back into 221B with you, despite wanting to kill you myself the moment you gave up the act. What do you have to offer me? Heads in the fridge? Playing that god awful violin of yours at three in the morning when I’m trying to sleep? Insisting that we go to the morgue at 5:00am on my day off from the surgery because “the game is on” and there’s been a murder you’re just itching to solve? The fun of living with someone who’s basically a six foot man child who doesn’t even clean up after himself?”

John shoved Sherlock’s chest with his hand in frustration after the last comment to prove his point, possibly a little harder than necessary. Sherlock tumbled backwards a few steps, staring at John in shock. He didn’t respond, just stood perfectly still in front of John, not saying a word.

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair and placed his hands on his hips. He was getting all worked up about it all of a sudden, and he was letting his emotions get the better of him. He wasn’t used to saying things like this. He was never good with talking about his feelings, especially not with Sherlock. This isn’t what they did. They lived comfortably together as flatmates without ever talking about uncomfortable subjects like this, and John was having difficulty putting what he wanted to say into coherent sentences.

He exhaled deeply before he continued. He looked up at the ceiling for a moment and blew air out of his nose somewhat dramatically. He had gotten this far and there was no going back now. John wasn’t completely sure what had come over him all of a sudden, but he knew he needed to say this, out loud, right now. It was as if once he started talking, he just couldn’t stop.

“Okay, I’m really rubbish at this, I know. But you need to hear this. Sherlock, I know this is hard for you to believe, and it’s even harder for me to admit, but I do care about you. You are my best friend.” He paused, swallowing hard as he realized the reality of those words.

He took another deep breath before continuing, finally raising his eyes to Sherlock’s. “I’m not saying that because I thought you were dead for two years and you came back, or because I feel sorry for you. I’m saying it because it’s true. And even though half the time I’m with you, I want to tear your throat out you’re so obnoxious, I know you’re always going to be my best friend.”

John paused for a moment again, feeling a sudden warmth in his cheeks. He cleared his throat. “And…and those kids were assholes to you. You deserve better. You deserve _so_ much better. Yes, you have an incredible mind and you can spit out rapid-fire deductions faster than I can even think, but you are so much more than your mind, Sherlock. You are the smartest, wisest man I have ever known, but that’s not all you are. I don’t believe that high-functioning sociopath bullshit for a minute either. You are loyal and trustworthy and kind and…and _loving_ and even though you wouldn’t admit to any of this, it’s true. There is no one else in this world that I would trust more than you to take a bullet for me, and I’ve been in the army.” With that, John awkwardly took a step back from Sherlock, realizing that he had been taking steps closer and closer to Sherlock until he was almost right in front of his face. He cleared his throat and fumbled with his hands. “So…yeah. Shut up, you wanker. I’m not going to let you feel sorry for yourself like that. It’s annoying.”

A moment of silence passed and neither of them moved. Sherlock just stared at John, frozen, as if he didn’t know how to respond. John’s face reddened even more and he had trouble meeting Sherlock’s eyes. _Oh now you’ve done it,_ he thought. _You basically just poured your heart out to your flatmate. He’s going to burst out laughing any second now._

Suddenly, just as John was about to say something to cover his embarrassment, Sherlock lunged forward, grabbing John’s face in his hands and kissing him hard on the mouth. John froze at first, completely caught off guard, but after a moment he simply let go and melted into the kiss. He felt his whole body relax and in that moment he wanted nothing more in the world than to be kissing Sherlock Holmes.

John grabbed the edge of Sherlock’s t-shirt, pulling him closer and pressing their bodies together as they kissed, moving his lips in sync with Sherlock’s. It was a desperate, sloppy kiss, and when they finally pulled away, both of them were breathing heavily.

Sherlock stepped back suddenly, releasing John, his face an alarming shade of red. “I’m sorry…” he choked out. “That was…inappropriate.”

John cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair nervously, unable to hold back a smile. “I’m not really sure what just happened, but that was… _that was amazing_ ,” he said, looking cautiously up at Sherlock and biting his lower lip, still grinning.

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he looked at John in shock. “What?”

John courageously took a step closer to Sherlock and took the detective’s hands in his before he could stop himself. “I said…” he took another step closer, closing the space between them, his heart beating a mile a minute. Sherlock made a small gasping sound as John pressed himself closer against his chest. “That was amazing,” John whispered, tilting his head up for another kiss.

“I don’t understand…” Sherlock mumbled. “This is okay? You…you want this?”

John smiled and kissed the side of Sherlock’s neck, feeling him shudder at the sensation. “Of course I do,” John murmured, trailing kisses up Sherlock’s neck towards his chin.

“But I—I thought—I never thought you would…” he gasped and sputtered as John placed another kiss on the side of his neck, which John was learning very quickly to be a sensitive area. “I never thought you would want… _me_.”

John pulled away and gave Sherlock a stern look. “That’s because you’re an idiot. Have you not listened to anything I just said? I think I’ve wanted this for a long time…I just didn’t know it until tonight,” he said, smiling up at him. He tilted his head up for another kiss. “Now shut up and kiss me, you idiot.”

This one was less sloppy and more sweet and soft. Sherlock was incredibly awkward though and didn’t appear to know what to do with his body or lips. He was still trying to kiss John back somewhat desperately, and John had no idea what he was trying to do with his tongue.

John pulled away and looked up at Sherlock, puzzled. “Have you…have you done this before?” he asked softly, coming to the realization that it was entirely possible that Sherlock was actually a virgin, in all aspects of the word.

Sherlock swallowed nervously and started stuttering, his cheeks flushing. “Um, I—well, I—not much—it’s—it’s been a while and I—”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John said quietly, interrupting him. He smiled encouragingly. “It’s fine. It’s all fine. I’ve got you.”

The consulting detective bit his lip and nodded, looking at John with somewhat terrified eyes. “Just follow my lead,” John whispered, then leaned in for another kiss.

Sherlock was still closing his eyes when they pulled away this time, and John laughed. Sherlock opened his eyes and grinned giddily at John.

“Better?” Sherlock asked hopefully.

“Much better,” John replied, grinning.

His face still felt warm and he was highly aware of the way their bodies were pressed up against each other through their pajamas. John was frankly surprised that this was all happening, but at the same time he couldn’t believe it didn’t happen sooner. It all felt right, like the most natural thing in the world. He never pictured himself ever being with a man, but it made sense that if it was anyone, it was Sherlock Holmes.

John snaked his arms around Sherlock’s waist, hugging him close. “Still think no one cares about you?” he asked teasingly, smiling up at him.

Sherlock laughed and shook his head. He leaned down and pressed his forehead to John’s, sighing in content, wrapping his arms around his waist and never wanting to let go. “I’m willing to reconsider my theory. Anything for you, John Watson. _You keep me right_.”


End file.
